


Crown and anchor me

by yesfir



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, Childhood Friends, Childhood Memories, Fluff, M/M, Misgendering, Romance, Trans Dirk Strider, also jake is gently nonbinary, but not malicious, cute shit, just because jake doesn't know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 16:28:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28709706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yesfir/pseuds/yesfir
Summary: Jake and Dirk meet each other on vacation as kids, become best friends forever for a month, and then Jake has to leave. And even as he tells himself that he'll never meet his friend again, he can't quite give up hope. There's something he didn't get right the first time around, and even if second chances are rare, they're not impossible
Relationships: Jake English/Dirk Strider
Comments: 9
Kudos: 55





	Crown and anchor me

**Author's Note:**

> it is djweek and that means it's time to keep rolling out the cute oneshots, i guess. it's technically way past midnight here, but this is for the day 11 prompt, childhood friends.

They say it’s easier to make friends when you’re a child, and you wonder if it’s just one of those things everyone says, or if it’s actually true for most people. You think it might actually be the latter; it had certainly seemed that way when you were a kid. Like everyone else knew how to do something you didn’t, something so natural that they didn’t have to think about it; not even like riding a bike, but like blinking or breathing. It wasn’t _impossible_ for you, but it was never easy. With every new person you had to learn how to do it all over again, with different rules and different expectations, and it never got easier.

Except that one summer, that one month. It had been as magical as it was intense. Just this once, you’d experienced that thing everyone else seemed to have, where you meet someone and you like them and they like you and that’s it, you’re friends.

Her name was Lara, just like your big hero, but she’d scoffed and rolled her eyes when you excitedly pointed that out. If she was going to go raiding tombs, she said, she’d be wearing proper pants and a bigger backpack – and a sword. It took a while for her to explain this, because she had to cobble together some kind of language you could both understand by combing the Portuguese you’d taught her, the limited Spanish she knew, and the words you could understand in English. Still, what language fell short of conveying, you could usually make her understand through pointing, or expressions, or even spontaneous charades from time to time. She was a little bit too stiff and awkward for most such shenanigans, but she was good at interpreting your gestures, and she was inventive in other ways.

The very first day you met her, you were best friends, and it felt like you always had been. You’d been frightened by a big jellyfish while splashing around in the shallow water, and had climbed onto one of the jutting cliffs surrounding the beach. Only then did you find that you didn’t dare to jump down again, nor try to climb back to shore instead, and had resigned yourself in the way of children to being stuck there forever.

Shivering a bit since you were still wet and in your swim trunks, and there was a strong breeze from the sea, you’d curled up on your small rock shelf with your arms around your legs. You’d sat there for quite a while when an unfamiliar voice said, “Hey,” right behind to you. You’d looked up to find you weren’t alone anymore, as a stick-thin girl with large, piercing eyes had joined you on your cliff, perching like a mountain goat above you. She was wearing baggy shorts, and the print of her t-shirt was almost washed out, but it looked like it might be Japanese writing and some kind of cartoon. Her hair surrounded her face like a black halo, and she had neon orange band-aids on both knees.

After you’d almost fallen off the cliff of shock, and she’d tried to talk to you in English, which you didn’t understand much of, her mouth pressed into an intensely thoughtful little lopsided curve. Then she eased herself down to your level and reached out her hand to you, inclining her fingers upwards in a commanding gesture. Since you had no way of explaining to her that you were scared, that it wasn’t going to work, you just took her hard, warm hand in yours and allowed her to lead you back by slowly edging along an almost imperceptible ledge running along the cliffside. At the time it had felt like she had quite literally swept in and saved you from mortal peril, although the eye of memory tells you that your cliff had only been a couple of feet above the surface of the water. This does nothing, however, to change the impact of her leading you by the hand back to dry land, to safety, even now.

* * *

You were there on vacation with your grandmother, she with her father, who was apparently staying in the summer house of a friend rich enough to, well, have a summer house on the French riviera. Her dad was a teacher in the US, she said, as part of what you think was her explaining that this was the first time she’d been in another country. You replied that you’d been in other countries a couple of times, as your grandmother worked as a scientist in Brazil, but often had to go and lecture people in all sorts of places. She’d tilted her head in confusion then and said, “Why do you have to go on holiday here if you’re from Brazil? Isn’t that where people go on holiday _to_?”

And you’d laughed and said that didn’t make sense, you couldn’t go on holiday to another country if you already lived in it, and anyway, you could ask the same thing, because as far as you were concerned the US was in so many of your favorite movies and was basically the coolest place ever. Looking a bit superior, she told you that ‘the US’ wasn’t all Hollywood, it was _big_ , and you’d responded that well, so was Brazil. She’d been quiet for a moment, and you could practically see her pulling up her mental map and making comparisons. Then she nodded, gracefully conceding that you had a point, and said that maybe sometimes people just wanted to get away from wherever they were, no matter what country they were from.

She was like that. She could be impossible and argumentative in one moment, teasing and enigmatic, only to thoughtfully listen to everything you said and treat it as if it was actually important. It made you feel so different from how you normally felt, like you were bigger somehow, braver and smarter than you ever knew you could be.

Then the month had ended, and you had to go home. You remember your grandmother stopping by the house she was staying at, so you could say goodbye, and you’d felt like the world was ending. She’d come out a bit reluctantly, dressed in a blue dress with flowers on it, and it was only then you realized that you’d never seen her in a dress or a skirt before. Her hair, now arranged in neat braids down her back, rustled restlessly, the orange plastic beads at the ends clicking against each other as she moved. She had white sandals on her feet, not the sturdy brown ones she’d worn while climbing trees, playing hide and seek, riding her skateboard down the rolling hills which tumbled toward the water. These shoes were shiny and neat, and her feet looked all wrong in them.

* * *

A week before that you’d sat in a tree and you’d told her that you thought that you should get married when you grew up. She’d raised her eyebrows and said, “Why?” and you’d been sure that your nine-year-old heart had shattered. Stammering and suddenly quite unable to look her in the eye, you’d felt your cheeks burning as you mumbled your way into silence. “No, I’m not saying the idea is bad,” she said, a note of tension in her voice which you took for impatience, “I want to know why you think it’s good.”

“Because you’re cool!” you’d said, flustered and yet determined to make your case. “You’re brave, and fast, and funny as heck, and you know so many things about- about everything, and… I’d like to keep having fun with you forever.”

She almost never actually smiled. Instead she’d wrinkle her nose slightly, the corners of her mouth twitching as her eyes seemed to grow brighter, as if they were reflecting a sun that existed only for her. She did that now, the golden midday light seeming to get stuck in the creases of her deep brown skin. “You didn’t say I’m pretty,” she pointed out.

“Oh! Sorry. I mean, you’re really quite-”

“No,” she said, holding up her hand. “You had your chance, you said what you thought was important.” You’d fallen silent as she tilted her head back and seemed to think, one of her fingers tapping out a beat to a silent song. “Okay,” she said. “You answered right. I guess we can get married someday.”

* * *

It had been a silly conversation, of course; even at age nine, when a week felt like forever, you’d known it was silly. You were both making believe together in that moment, and yet it had seemed more real than what was happening in this final moment you had with her. Somehow it felt like an act, like you were both playing out parts that neither of you really liked or understood, and were just reading the lines off the script without any real intonation. This was the big moment, you’d thought, and you were getting it all wrong! Saying goodbye to your best friend in the whole world was supposed to be like something out of your movies, something sad and dramatic but beautiful, but instead it just felt stilted and awful.

Even when she pushed herself up on her tiptoes and kissed your cheek, the thrill you’d been expecting was missing. She’d held on to your shoulders for a moment, looking right into your eyes, as if she too was looking for whatever it was that had disappeared and left a big hole between you. Then her chin had trembled slightly, her lips turning into a thin line, and she turned around and ran back inside the house. You could hear her kicking her sandals off, and the kind of quick, raw breath that came before tears, and then silence. You stood where she’d left you, unsure what to do next, until her dad came out and smiled, shook your hand and explained awkwardly that she was just upset because you were leaving. He wasn’t lying, you knew, but grownups just didn’t get it. Something else had happened, something that was even sadder than saying goodbye, and now you’d never be able to set it right.

* * *

You’d very much thought you wouldn’t, right until a miracle happened. Well, maybe not a miracle, but certainly one of those bizarre internet-coincidences you only read about, where someone finds their long-lost twin or mother or dog after years and years. In short, you were on an internet forum dedicated to an anime you really liked, and you replied to a post asking people to tell the story of their own ‘beach episode’ by writing a few choice anecdotes from that summer in France. Only minutes later, a message appeared in your inbox from a user you’d never spoken to before, and the ornate little pixel skull with dramatic pointy shades next to their name informed you that this was one of the mods.

A bit nervous that you’d broken a rule somehow, or that someone had complained about you, you’d opened the message only to find one very cryptic line of text: “Hey, this is Lara Croft. Do you still want to marry me?”

Once you finally figured it out, you’d laughed so hard that you woke up your roommates.

* * *

It turned out you didn’t live at all far from each other now. Well, alright, maybe you’d never quite given up hope of seeing her again, so what? Maybe you’d remembered which state she’d said she lived in, which city, and made sure to get into a school there. Admittedly she could’ve moved, and that would make your efforts kind of pointless, but it was the only chance you had so you were going to take it. What was the point in going through life and not believing that sometimes, the impossible thing you were dreaming about really could happen?

There was another reason too, but… it was stupid. You knew it was stupid, and you tried your hardest not to think about it. But the fact of the matter was that over the years since then, you’d sort of worked out a few things about yourself that you hadn’t known when she kissed your cheek. About girls, that was, and how you weren’t really… that into them. It wasn’t that you didn’t think girls were pretty! They were pretty, and smelled nice, and always wore the most beautiful things. When you looked at an attractive girl, you’d usually feel this strange wistful tug in your gut, and for a while you were so sure that this meant you were in love. It didn’t, and it had been painful, confusing and awkward to find this out – and you’re sure it hadn’t been much fun for the girls in question, either. The point is that whatever it is that girls make you feel, it isn’t the kind of thing that makes people kiss each other or- or want to read poetry to each other, or somesuch.

But you can’t stop thinking that if you’d only gotten that moment right, if you’d found the right words to say when she kissed your cheek, then she… she might’ve been the exception. She might’ve been the girl you could actually fall in love with. She might’ve been It.

No, you don’t actually think you’re gay because that one girl you’d met at age nine had been the only one you could possibly love, you aren’t quite that fallen behind the turnip truck. But you do think that maybe even now, it might be possible that you could fall in love with her if you meet her. And, well, wouldn’t that be easier? It’s a shameful little thought, but you can’t help it. If there really _is_ an exception to the rule, some way of not having to deal with your sexuality such as it is, then you want to know about it. Is that really so bad?

Which leaves you here, at this slightly-but-not-excessively crowded cafe, waiting to meet her again after all these years. She’d been a bit cryptic online, only told you the name of the place and that she’d be carrying a bag with ‘an awesome pony’ on it, and that was it. You kept looking around for that cloud of black hair, or golden-brown eyes, or even a blue dress, but you can’t seem to find a single girl that matches what you remember. Sighing, you lean back in your chair. Maybe she’s been held up by something? You let your gaze wander to the counter, where a guy with carefully styled bleached hair is buying a cup of coffee and two chocolate croissants. When he leans on the counter and tilts his head slightly to the side, you see that he’s incredibly handsome, a sharp face and full lips, high cheekbones, a hint of piercing eyes behind a pair of pointy shades. You can’t help staring, because there’s something so magnetic about the way he moves, every little gesture seeming so graceful and deliberate, as if his lean body is under some sort of subtle tension all the time.

You tear your eyes away and remind yourself that you’re here to meet Lara, that this is much more important than ogling pretty boys. But when you look up again he’s standing right by your table, holding his croissants and his coffee. “Is this seat taken?” he asks in a flat drawl, indicating the chair in question with a tilt of his head.

“What?” You’re taken aback by how quickly he’d gotten there, your answer tying itself in a knot around your tongue. “Not y-” you finally manage, but he’s already sitting down, shoving one of the croissants in your direction. “I beg your pardon!” you say, now quite miffed by his stupid handsome face and the way he’d just assumed he could sit down. “Maybe my ears are all corked up, but I don’t actually believe I invited you to join me.”

“Didn’t you?” He leans back, spreading his legs wide in front of him in the way some men do, the way that you find both absolutely infuriating and, admittedly, also incredibly attractive. He’s wearing an orange tank top and artfully distressed black jeans, both apparently calculated to present his body at its greatest advantage, and thereby give you mild palpitations. You swallow and try very hard to think thoughts that aren’t related to sitting down in his lap and wrapping your legs around his waist, or lifting him up and pressing him against the nearest available wall, and finding it incredibly difficult. Consarn it all, why did a hot guy have to turn up and start flirting with you _now_ of all times? “Funny, I thought you did.”

”What?” you say again, feeling about as bright as a broken light bulb in a sack. In a hole in the ground. Under a boulder. On a planet with no sun. “What the devilfucking double-darned dickens are you talking about?”

For a moment he stares at you with his mouth slightly ajar. Then the corners of his lips twitch slightly, and his voice deepens with amusement. “Holy shit, what was that you just said? I swear to fuck I think your English made more sense when you barely spoke a word of it.”

You’re already staring at him, captivated still by the way his shades had ridden up when he scrunched up his nose. His words barely register, even as they confirm what you now know. You look down at the bag he’d put down on the floor next to him, and see that there’s an embroidered patch with one of those My Little Ponies on it, the blue one. Your eyes dart back to his face again, and now he looks more serious, perhaps a little guarded even, as if he’s gauging your response. Not like someone who is afraid, but perhaps like someone who really hopes there’s nothing to hypothetically be afraid of.

“You’re a boy,” you say, slowly. “You were always a boy.”

He scratches his neck, looking somewhat uncomfortable. “Well, yeah, though I don’t mean that in the sense that I was… fuck. I mean that I wasn't pretending to-”

You wave him into silence. “No, I know what you mean. People thought you were a girl, and maybe you thought so too, but… you were always a boy.” You let out a small laugh, a little bit resigned but somehow free. The stupid hope that there’s this one magical girl in a blue dress who will make you something you’re not dissolves like mist, and you can suddenly see clearly. You can feel the steady hand holding yours, guiding you off the narrow cliff path, bringing you back from between the jagged stone and the impermanent sea. You can hear the wind through the high branches of the plane tree, as a young voice next to you says, _You answered right. I guess we can get married someday._

The girl in the blue dress never existed. She was just an idea that you were both trying to believe in, because at the time you’d thought it made sense to do so; you’d thought it had to play out like that. To you, she had never represented what you wanted, but rather what you thought you ought to be - a mask to hide your face behind, as you tried to play a part that wasn’t written for you. But there are so many more roles you can play, an infinite number, and in time you’ll be able to find ones that fit.

“What’s your name?” you ask, and only then realize how widely you’re grinning.

He actually smiles for real this time, albeit briefly. “Dirk.”


End file.
